


Rain and Venom

by doggirl5000



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doggirl5000/pseuds/doggirl5000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a moment, a shadow of a second really, such a miniscule trifling instant, when she is looking at you – eyes dark, unreadable, lined with kohl and malice – when you realize…and your heart stops. You are addicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain and Venom

Delectable hues, dark and unyielding, paint the length of her body. Tempting fabrics, supple and sleek, hug enticing curves, molding into her with each swaying step. Burnished eyes, shadowed from the firelight burn black against alabaster skin. Crimson lips part, eager to spill forth the venom of those confident lies she tells so well.

It goes beyond enslavement. Crosses the boundary of obsessive. And doesn't even begin to touch on indebted. There is a moment, a shadow of a second really, such a miniscule trifling instant, when she is looking at you – eyes dark, unreadable, lined with kohl and malice – when you realize…and your heart stops. You are addicted.

She is the flame and you the idle moth. It is wicked how she flickers, tempting with fiery tendrils, beckoning you forward, enticing with sparks of false hope, and embers of empty promise. You yearn to go ever closer, just one more step, one fleeting touch, one moment when the flame is all your own, mindless of how it will burn…

She is a cobra, deadly and beautiful. Her lips drip with a deadly poison as she hisses and beckons you near, and you bade her call. She sways back and forth, mesmerizing, trailing you idly along, poised to strike when she deems convenient. It is cruel the way she slithers around you, every movement, every muscle an art of precision. A tongue snakes out and wets those deadly lips, before they curl into a saccharine smile, assuring you of safety. You yearn to linger at those venomous lips, to see if the poison is as sweet as she makes it look...

Whether it is the lust in her brown eyes, the cruel curve of her ruby lips, or the way she possesses you without touch or spoken word, you are hers.

You move around her chessboard, having learned long ago to live as a pawn, moving wherever and however your queen demands. It is what she wills of you and you do not dispute it.

You are mocked, damned, pitied for your adoration, often reminded of a one-sided cruel truth: you are replaceable. You are her pet, her possession. Every word that she purrs has woven its way into more hearts than you care to fathom…and yet…the other side of that cruel coin of truth, one that only you and the damned, pitied hearts that fill her wall of boxes will ever know: you may be replaceable, but she never will be.

You know what she has done. You know what her once proud people think of her. You know of the murmurs from scared townsfolk, the curses uttered under cowards' breath, but you hear none of it. You cannot. To hear the truth would not cure your addiction would not curb your devotion. Because you know. You know her.

It is not a knowledge that comes lightly or without price. And, oh, how you paid. It is not a state of realization known to many, and for that you believe you should be grateful, and yet…

People warn you of the payment, the debt she will demand paid, and you nod and listen, halfheartedly at best, determined to return to her. She will be expecting you. Not one of the heathens and hypocrites that once praised her far and wide and now denounce her very memory – even the sanctity of her name, that once flew from happy lips, has been forgotten. You. She waits in exile for you. And yet you find you cannot revel in such a fact.

You drink the poison, caress the flame, move at her will not for sake of devotion, addiction, adoration, or anything else her presence offers. You partake of the bitter apple that is being her possession, her thing – replaceable and temporary – for the scant moments when you are graced with seeing her. The real her.

They say 'what you don't know won't kill you', and it is true. But what they don't know about her kills you. They see the stone tomb, but not what lies within. They see the rage, the hate, the vengeance that spurs her, and aids in their fear of her. They hold her accountable to her treachery, her malice, and her indifference, but they do not see why she is those things. And in this knowledge, known not to common men, again you should find revelation and pride, for you are the only one who truly sees. And yet, still, you cannot.

You see the hate, the rage, and the vengeance, just as they see it. But there is more. It is in those moments, sparse and brief, though never do they fail to appear, that you are granted a glimpse at what lies beneath the stone. There is an emptiness that hollows her dark eyes, dulls them from their usual glint. There is a desire that rages and roils and clenches her fists. There is a love that waits buried deep out of reach, ever fearful of the sunlight of fruition, knowing with that light comes shadow. There is a woman, afraid and alone, broken and shattered, cowering in a cold corner, who allows this witch's magic and lust for power, to shield her from that which would cause her more harm. There is an innocent, well-meaning heart, a ghost of what it once was, frantic to hide and shelter what is left of it until someone worthy and strong can once again make it whole.

It is that sight, which eludes all others, that fixes you to her side. It is in the moments when her mask falters and the woman within shines, which cements your devotion. And it is in those moments when you wonder, if everyone else saw what you did, would they love her too?

It was in a contradiction when first your love was sparked. "She cannot be trusted," was whispered in your ear upon passing, the utterer one she held close. She cannot be trusted and yet you do. You felt a pang of guilt at betraying to her one she cared for, one she trusted, but the approving smile that graced her features, the slender fingers that rested on your chest, and the shine of praise that glistened in her eyes, accompanied with a silky, "You did well, my pet," was enough to quell the pestilent feeling, and silence the screams of the 'trusted' being led away.

But it was later that night, when you returned from town, did you see one of those glorious moments, and you began to understand. Standing at a roaring fire, crackling and spiting in the large granite fireplace, stood a goddess draped in deep mahogany velvet, hair pinned up save for a strand that framed either side of her face. The firelight flickered and danced across her pale skin, set in a stoic fashion, but the flames glinted betrayal in moist, red eyes. You dared not move, scarcely breathe, lest you disrupt her thoughts. So you just stood and watched. For long moments you took in her vulnerable beauty, willing every detail, every curve and play of light into memory. You don't know what lit the realization, but the origin does not concern you, as the simple thought takes your breath away: all she can feel now is pain. She revels in it because now that is all that registers.

As if she could hear your very thoughts her gaze turns on you, cold and deadly. Her vulnerability vanished, replaced with vehemence and fury. The moment is gone, hidden away again; but you know another moment will arise.

Moonlight filtered in and bathed the large room in ethereal light, when next you partook of another glorious moment. You rose from the bed, the deed done, and moved to redress. A warm hand flew from the dark, gripping enough to hold you still, but not enough to hurt…not yet. You turn your head and watch in fastened amazement as her face appears in the dull light. Lips smirk, having been removed of their gloss long ago. Mussed hair manages to radiate a subtle perfection, giving way to deep brown eyes, tired and satisfied, yet still they twinkle with a lustful contentment as they bat sleepily. A single mellifluous word floats from the dark, kiss-bruised lips, "Stay." You nod, but it is apparent she did not see the slight movement, for when you turn to rise again in an effort to adjust, her grip turns vice-like. You are sure there will be a bruise on your wrist in the morning from how tightly she is clutching you, but before you can utter a word, you hear the quietest of sighs before her hand snaps back as though singed with flame and she rolls to her side. It is in the moment, basked in the heavenly gleam of the moon, when just the bare skin of her shoulder and back and the side of her face are illuminated when first you realize: everyone else leaves.

And it was a night like that - one where she ordered you to stay, but you heard the lilt of fear and the shake of doubt that you would of your own accord– that you realized…you love her. And that stung more than all the venom and flame in all the worlds. You are a pet, a possession, a replaceable thing. You are not the first to love her and will not be the last. But tonight when she asks you to stay it is not for passion's sake, or a temporary place mark to fill the hole in her chest. She asks you to stay, to put her arms around her, to comfort her, for intimacy sake. Nothing more.

The wedding had been beautiful, or so the murmurs in the town square spoke. The queen's appearance and her threats seemed to have fallen lost in the shuffle of the week long festivities. There was a new queen and king, Snow and James. Only in private musings were you allowed to utter their names, though even when they did float to your mind, you cursed them wholeheartedly. She was still your queen. She always would be.

The morning after the day of the wedding gave way to bluster of rain and chill, while folds of black clouds hung overhead. You spent quite a time looking for her in the vast expanse of the dark castle, and when you found her…it took your breath away. Wrapped in a deep blue cloak, allowing the rain to pelt over her, sat your queen huddled beneath the sturdy branches of her tree – their tree. Beneath her cloak, shadowed from the cutting rain, a single fruit of the tree above was clutched gently in an ivory fist. You marveled how even in the murk of the surroundings the fruit gave off a luminous sanguine luster. And how it so reminded you of your queen. In a world of betrayal, a place of exile and hate, she still shone with a magnificent, unwavering brilliance. Yet, unfortunately, it was a world where you were the sole partaker of the magnificence.

You took a step out into the rain, careful not to stir her silent musings, but when her head snapped up to look at you, you stopped. There it was…a moment. In those eyes, that had just a day before shone with hate and vengeance, glistened a shard of hope. You smiled. But then you saw it. You were not who she was expecting…or praying for. The hope faded as smoke's breath in the frigid air, and you realized: in the town below happily ever after's were being played out, born, and snapped into fruition, and yet here, beneath her tree, was the only happily anything she would ever find again.

The final moment you see is one of your own doing, and though it is as glorious a sight as those previous, this moment, you know, will be the last.

You spoke out of turn. Your love made you bold. You angered your queen; you questioned her intentions, her wrath, and the cause of her vendetta. You spoke of the love she had hoped you were when you spied her beneath their tree. You voiced the absurdity of her actions, never fully realizing the pain that drove them. And now the debt is to be paid.

To that room of boxes she leads you, and you follow. You find tears flood your eyes, blurring your vision, but they do not so for the sake of your predicament, the doom that shall soon befall you. They are for her.

The angry staccato of her heels is the only sound as she advances upon the doors, and with an angry flick of her wrist they fly open. You blindly acquiesce and the second you are in the room, the doors slam shut. That's when you hear it. It is the sharp resonating tick of a clock shop or the buzz of an angry hive of bees, each trying to fall into sync with the others. The sound is dull and sharp, bewitching and unnerving, glorious and damned. Here you stand surrounded by those hearts who loved her as you do now, those who were replaceable, temporary possessions, and you realize: you do not just love your queen. Your love is not what held you faithfully to her side, or prompted you to betray those you cared for. Your love was not what made you bade her every call, despite the contradictions and guilt that haunted you when each venomous word was spoken. No, you do not just love her. You pity her.

You pity the love she lost, and how it broke her heart. You pity the love she is now too afraid to search for, and feels she no longer deserves. You ache for the woman you see in those glorious moments, pained with knowing you are not the one who could release her from her self-imposed prison. You yearn to ease her pain, to quell her fears, to set free the heart so sheltered in her chest. But mostly you pity how she does not see.

When she strides toward you, acid in her gaze, determination in her sway, a leonine grin contorting her lips, you do not move away. How can you? You love her, you pity her. She is your queen. You are hers.

A surprisingly gentle hand is slowly moved up your arm, caressing your shoulder, before slender fingers move into place above your heart. Burning eyes gaze into yours, as the hand tightens onto the fabric of your chest. And you see it. The final moment.

Slowly the black malice that shadows her eyes melts into orbs of deep brown belying her only true weakness: regret. A tear slips from the recesses of her heart to settle in the corner of her eye, though still the wicked smirk plays freely on her lips. And you see her. The woman from beneath the apple tree clinging to the smallest semblance of hope. The woman who reached out in the dark, terrified to be ever alone. The woman who stood at the fireplace, stoic and solemn, though ever in pain. And the woman who cares for you…but is too broken to love.

You trace her lips with a steady finger and cup her soft cheek, relishing in the way her eyes close and set free the tear that glides over her skin and caresses onto yours. You gently drop your hand, slowly and confidently, from her cheek and place it over the one she has fastened to your chest. And you smile.

You love her. You pity her. You are hers. And yet how can she not see? She does not need to rip the heart from your chest... for she already has it.


End file.
